Page 176 of Fractured Loyalties
I exhale slowly, folding the empty vial into a rag and pressing it into the trash pocket.
“I didn’t stay because it’s safe,” I murmur.
“Then why?”
“Because I’ve spent my whole life avoiding the things I want. And I’m tired.”
His head tips forward, eyelids heavier now. I guide his body gently to lean against mine.
“You shouldn’t want me,” he says.
“I know.”
The vehicle hums on, a slow crawl toward the safehouse none of us believe in.
But for now, I hold him.
And for now, he lets me.
The safehouse is worse than I expected.
It’s buried behind a rusted industrial gate, its hinges shrieking as Lydia muscles it open. The lot beyond is cracked cement, scattered with the skeletal remains of old vehicles and chemical drums faded by rain and time. The main building is a block of concrete smothered in moss, two stories of neglect and bad memories.
Lydia parks around the side, beneath a partial overhang. Kinley exits first, gun raised, sweeping the perimeter. I ease Elias upright.
He groans, quiet and involuntary.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t argue. That frightens me more than blood.
Lydia slams the driver’s door shut. “Get him inside. This place is dead air—Volker won’t find us unless he’s got eyes in the trees.”
“I wouldn’t rule that out,” Kinley mutters.
Inside, the safehouse smells like metal and old water. The walls are bare concrete. There’s a utility sink and a makeshift cot with a clean sheet folded at the foot. Two crates serve asfurniture. A bucket and a portable burner sit nearby, both still dusty.
Elias leans heavily on me. I help him lower onto the cot, breath catching as he exhales a sharp hiss.
The light above us flickers.
Kinley sets down a duffel and unzips it. He tosses Lydia a loaded sidearm, then heads to secure the exits.
I kneel beside the cot.
Elias is pale. The painkillers are dulling his edge, but not the ache.
“You need sleep,” I say.
“I need a plan.”
“You’ll be dead before the next move if you don’t let your body recover.”
“I’ve recovered from worse.”
I trace the back of my knuckle along his forearm. He watches the movement but doesn’t react.
“Volker knew everything,” I say. “About us. About Caleb. About Jori. He wasn’t bluffing.”
